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The Fox and the Firefly

Balboa Press

It has been eighteen months since my last operation in the field. Pure relief flows into every inch of my body, as I listen to the director tell me my new undercover assignment details. This feeling is indescribable to anyone else unless they can relate to being as out of place in this world, as I am.

I'm especially qualified for deep cover assignments due to my lack of connection with the world. No family or significant friends, no collateral damage potential either. I don't need to worry about the girlfriend factor thanks to a souvenir from my assignment in the middle-east seven years ago.

Explosives really do have the ability to re-arrange a person's face, especially when you're standing right next to it. About forty percent of my face is irreparably scarred. There is even pieces of shrapnel still embedded underneath my right eye socket.

The doctors did all they could and they pulled off a miracle compared to what it looked like before. Not to mention the entire upper right side of my torso.

At the time of my injury I was engaged, and all I could think about was surviving to see Annabelle again. When I saw her reaction to my face the first time after the surgery I was gutted. Annabelle tried for the sake of love to get past the superficial downfalls, but she was a stunningly beautiful woman.

Long blonde hair, crystal coloured blue eyes, and legs for days. Annabelle was actually Miss North Carolina before we met, a real southern belle. She wasn't used to us venturing out in public and having people stare at me instead of her.

My scars have become such a part of me now that people notice me and forget me in the same instant. Which is very a useful trait for an undercover F.B.I agent. After Annabelle finally left me I buried myself in work and I've infiltrated and brought down two of the biggest crime syndicates in the country.

My new assignment sounds right up my alley as I listen to my boss explain. A Russian mafia family known as the Nolikovs have an operation set up in New Orleans, Louisiana. There is a bar the Bureau suspects is a front for all of their real business.

The bar backs directly onto the Mississippi for all deliveries. New Orleans is one of the biggest ports in the United States and probably the least protected.

Intel reports show that this family has a particularly cruel way of dealing with betrayal so gruesome that it probably explains the lack of information we have on them. The Nolikovs have been operating in Louisiana for almost ten years.

Yet our information about the organization is scarce. The last two agents that we sent in were discovered and no trace of them has been found. Now the Nolikov family's security measures are evidently impenetrable.

My instructions are simple and strict surveillance only, and report back. There is another agent already in play whose task is getting in with the family operations. This agent has managed to warn the Bureau of the Nolikov's security measures regarding new comers. There can be no mistakes this time.

I close up my apartment, pack my bags and set off for the birthplace of Louis Armstrong. I'm flying incognito, coach. I spend the flight reviewing and studying everything about my new identity.

I leave behind Mason Harris in Washington D.C and now James Carson is on his way to New Orleans via Memphis downing as many salty mini pretzels as possible to help with the slight nausea I feel before any new assignment I undertake.

My cover is to become a regular in the bar establishment. Being new to the area and coming off an explosive divorce, no one will question a divorcee with my face in a bar constantly. I've never had to endure a southern summer before and I hear that New Orleans, Louisiana is particularly brutal.

I land at Louis Armstrong airport about to embark on yet another life. With strict orders of going dark, no contact with the Bureau unless compromised. Except for the scheduled reporting dates with my handler.

I take a cab into downtown New Orleans towards my hotel in the French quarter. Where I'm staying for a few days until the contract on my new apartment is finalised and I can move in. I check into the hotel and decide to go for stroll.

I walk along the cobble stone sidewalk through the quarter. The bright sun beams as I wipe the beads of sweat from my forehead, and my thighs seem heavy as they push through the thickness of the humidity.

I come to a street car stop and jump on the next one that comes along. Exploring the city also helps with my cover story of just moving to town. The rest of my cover story has been fine tuned for optimal under cover success.

After my alcoholism caused me to lose my job at an investment company in Philadelphia. My wife left me and I moved to a creativity inspiring town to pursue my life-long dream of writing. Stories about tragedy mostly, I'm sure not in a position to write about romance. Travel or detective stories might make the Russians suspicious.

Mine really is the face of tragedy but today's society are either too scared, too polite or too selfish to ask about it. Just in case the back story is a car accident after a few drinks. I'm just be another want-to-be writer in a bar all day searching for inspiration in a bottle and drinking what Hemmingway called writers fuel.

All of this will be supported with some bogus DUI charges and drunk in public offences. My criminal history is just another colourful piece to the puzzle that is my new life.

My paper trail is completely flawless, —it has to be— even the day trading firm of Wilson, Buxton and Niedmann Investments in Philadelphia exists as a company set-up and run by the FBI. The company is used for operative's undercover back stories but also used as a banking company in sting operations.

Our undercover agent already in play has informed us that the Russians will run a check on me once I start frequenting their establishment.

In my experience criminals like the Nolikovs don't get to their positions of power without being exceptionally paranoid about security. Particularly when they've been infiltrated before. So I've prepared for all possible risks in regards to my true identity and purpose.

My intense concentration is broken by the sound of a loud ding, end of the line. I disembark the streetcar to continue making more extensive observations about the local area. It's so hot I think my sunglasses are actually starting to melt or maybe it's my face that's melting and the sunglasses are fine.

Even the water of the Mississippi looks like its boiling. I look back towards the canal street, streetcar but it's disappeared into a blend of buildings the heat waves rising from the pavement.

A man on a bicycle rides past with a cooler full of ice selling bottles of water at a dollar a pop. Which as I flag him down, note that today would be a very profitable day for him.

I continue walking along the river front past the Audubon aquarium where a group of school children are coming out. With amazement written all over their faces along with the wonder of all the things they've just seen. I smile at the thought of ever having that feeling of amazement and happiness ever again especially at the age of thirty-eight.

Then I hear it, the innocent voice accompanied by a pointing finger of a child asking his teacher what's wrong with that man's face. I'm snapped back to reality as the teacher forces the boy's arm down flashes me a quick apologetic look then hurries the group of kids off to the cross walk.

I continue my stroll down the river bank past the Natchez paddle steamer. I make my way back onto the street that runs parallel with the river and continue to look around. I notice all the t-shirt shops, this is a very tourism focussed town.

People from all over the world all in one city. I think I've heard about nine different languages since I started my stroll. No wonder the Russians haven't really drawn much attention, they wouldn't really stand out.

Anyone would just think they're tourists or more immigrants trying to make a better life for themselves. Of course, their idea of making a better life for themselves is ruining other innocent lives so it can't continue. This really is a walking city but I should set about getting a car as soon as I'm set up in my new house.

My ears are overcome with the sound of jazz as I round the corner into Jackson square. I really don't mind jazz music, I could really come to appreciate it a bit better. I notice a young woman having her palm read by a fortune teller near the jazz musicians, she's very attractive but that's not why I noticed her.

I realize that I've seen this woman's face before. Her hair looks different but I've just spent the past few days completely absorbed by her image so I know it's her. Perhaps I spent more time studying her face in the picture from my debrief pack of photo surveillance than I should have.

She's one of the bar tenders at the Russian bar. We don't have any background information on her. Just the name 'Ruby' and a picture of her. However in the picture I have, her hair is fire red. Now she's a brunette, long dark brown hair down past her shoulder blades.

She gets up to leave, she's wearing a strapless turquoise dress that flows to just above her knees. Her long bronzed legs are accentuated by flesh coloured strappy heels, her waist cut off by a fuchsia and brown belt.

I didn't realize that I had drawn closer to her during my observations. She turned suddenly and jumped— I startled her— then she looked me dead in the eyes, smiled and said,

"Well that was fast". I stand in stunned silence as she turns back to the fortune teller, thanks her and walks away giggling to herself. I sit down in front of the fortune teller, Madame Teema, I put down a twenty and ask her what she told the woman who just left.

The fortune teller told me about the woman known only as ruby that has had a life of hearts suffering but she should happy to know that a tall, dark and handsome stranger was about to enter her life and turn it all around.

No wonder she laughed. I'm tall at six feet four inches, with dark brown hair, but as for handsome, well. Ruby summed it up best with just a giggle. I decide to follow her and I head off in the direction she went. It appears she's vanished then all of a sudden I spot her down the street on the right coming out of a store with a bag in tow.

I notice that I'm not the only one watching her.

There are two men about forty feet away from her but definitely following her, matching her step for step. I think back to her turning around and jumping before when she saw me. I didn't think much of it at the time because my face usually causes that reaction but perhaps it wasn't just my presence that startled her.

I continue following them all as Ruby heads towards the French quarter markets. She pauses at the edge of the stalls turns slightly to look over her shoulder. Then she pulls out her phone makes a call that barely lasts thirty seconds, hangs up then proceeds into the markets stalls.

I see the two following her stop as one receives a phone call that's even shorter than hers when he hangs up he hails a cab and the two get in, as they were getting into the cab I could see their faces clearly and I'm surprised to recognize them from my debrief pack of photo surveillance as two of the Nolikov's henchmen.

So she's being followed by her own employer —perhaps he doesn't trust her—, she could be turned to be an asset in the Bureau's investigation. Unless she is the other agent that is already in play with the Russian family.

Because of classified details no-one knows about the agent who is already working this case except their handler. To prevent the potential for leaks that could compromise them, so even I don't know who I'm working with.

I continue to observe Ruby in this serendipitous circumstance as she seemingly sashays through the market place like she's dancing, so graceful and elegant. I don't think there is a pair of eyes that doesn't notice her, this creature of grace and beauty.

It seemed like minutes that I followed Ruby through the markets as she made her way to the fruit venders to get an apple which the gentleman running the store gave her free of charge.

She has a commanding presence, I imagine her to be right at home as one of the Egyptian queens of history. With men throwing themselves on the ground at her feet just so she didn't have to touch the ground, rewarding them with only a smile.

Yet there is more to it than that. Her beauty comes from beneath her skin, her smile seems genuinely sincere, the kind that you can't help but smile back at. Her eyes are kind and full of compassion which was evident as she gave the apple she'd received to a homeless person lying on a bench on the out skirts of the market.

Ruby radiates beauty in all its forms, it makes watching her an easy task— perhaps too easy—. I'm shocked to find I've been following her for almost three hours. "Where did the day go?" I ask myself. I watch Ruby get into a cab and pull away. I head back to my hotel on Bourbon Street—party central— no better place to blend in.

I wake to a housekeeper knocking wanting to make up my room. I ask her to come back in half an hour. I haven't had a chance to store my assignment debrief information safely yet. Today's first order of business. You can never be too paranoid in my line of work.

I have a quick breakfast in the café on the street front of the hotel. Then I walk down to the bank to open up a safe deposit box that will hold my documents— real and forged— until I move into my own place. I must remember to call the real estate agent today to see how it's going with my new house.

Early the next morning I arrange to meet the real estate agent. She picks me up from café du monde in her car to take me to see my new place. We drive to a —not particularly too bright— side of New Orleans. I would even go as far as to say the dangerous part of town near the river towards the coast.

The young blonde real estate girl Hannah is desperately trying to make small talk to distract me from the neighbourhood and surrounds clambering to hold on to her commission. I try to reassure her that it's fine to calm her down, as if I have a choice. It's all about location, location, location.

My new house is located just a few streets away from my new assignment, just 2.8 miles. We round the corner and I see it, an understated two story town house type. I don't really care about what it looks like.

The house was chosen for its discreetness, and access to a nearby freeway that leads straight to the airport— or Texas whichever seems more needed at the time— if I should need to make a quick exit. There are no nearby residential neighbours. Just a few new office buildings built in the wake of hurricane Katrina. There are a few empty lots that still have the remains of dilapidated homes.

I suppose after that sort of devastation you wouldn't really want to rebuild in the same place and wait for it to happen all over again. I'm told that a lot of the empty properties are owned by a private organization—Russian if my information is correct. As we head back to the French quarter I spot it, the bar right there on the water front.

"Local watering hole." I point out.

Hannah's reply is quick, "I don't think you want to go there it's kind of a dive and I hear it's a really dicey sort of place". I'm amazed that such a run-down bar at the edge of town has such a bad reputation. Hannah points out some other nicer establishments on our drive, I ignore her. My thoughts are just on the one bar 'The Red Fox'.

'The Red Fox' is owned and operated by a father and two sons. Boris Nolikov is the patriarch of the family and makes all of the executive decisions. His son's Dimitri and Alexzander are in charge of overseeing the bar operations, as well as the other operations that are running through this bar.

Surveillance shows this bar doesn't really have a steady business at least not anywhere near enough to account for all of the so called stock deliveries. Most of the deliveries happen by way of the dock out the back that leads to the Mississippi.

There are by our account eleven people involved with the bar operations. Including the father, two sons, and Dimitri's wife Katarina. There are three bar staff including Ruby, and four other men who operate as security. Two of these security staff were the ones following Ruby through town yesterday. I still wonder if they are for her protection or harm.

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Excerpted from The Fox and the Firefly by Riley Maylon. Copyright © 2014 Riley Maylon. Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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